At Whit's End (Wells Ranch, #4)(43)
“Take it slow. Got it.”
“I’m not trying to discourage you from asking her out. I only want you to make the best choice for yourself…and for them.”
I’m aware I’m entirely out of my depth here, with no parenting experience or father worthy of learning from. Maybe I can’t waltz into their lives and become Jonas’s dad overnight. But if there’s one thing I learned from watching my mom parent us on her own, it’s that Whit can take care of Jonas. What she needs before anything else is somebody to take care of her. To put her first.
That is something I can do.
“Not discouraged, Ma. She’s already referred to me as a friend, so I know it’s going to take time to change her mind, but that’s fine. What date is it today?”
“Um…” The line goes quiet for a few seconds. “The thirteenth.”
“Perfect. Block off August thirteenth on your calendar for the next few years. You’ll have a wedding to attend for one of them, and then you can count on babysitting a grandbaby or two for quite a few anniversaries after.”
Colt
August heat curls around me, pulling sweat from my skin as I lie spread-eagle on top of my bed, having just woken up from a nap. Ideally, I’d like to chug a bunch of NyQuil or something to knock me back out, because my dream about Whit was so fucking close to getting real good. After a full week since seeing her, I can’t seem to sleep, or shower, or be alone in bed without thinking of her.
While I slept, a text came through that Austin’s wife, Cecily, made sangria and everybody was going swimming. And since I have no sleeping medication to lull me back into Whit-filled dreams, an afternoon by the river sounds a hell of a lot better than suffering in the sweltering bunkhouse.
Never mind missing Whit, I’ve also barely seen Jonas lately, though he’s keeping busy with the women in the kitchen after he finishes his regular tasks. The final push for haying, combined with excruciating heat, means Austin has us working god-awful hours. I’m struggling to sleep during the hottest part of the day and working through the night, chugging Red Bull and singing along to country music to keep myself awake. It’s been miserable.
Eyes wet from my uncontrollable yawning, I amble down the winding, heavily treed path to the riverbank, counting down the seconds to when I can leap into the glacier-fed river. Nearly the entire Wells Ranch gang is down by the water today, belongings scattered under the trees. Even in the shade, and by the rushing water, it’s hotter than hell.
I slip out of my sandals and ditch my shirt beside where Jackson’s wife, Kate, and Cecily are stacking rocks with Kate’s kids. Rather, they were stacking rocks, but it promptly ends when Betty runs straight for Odessa and her tail destroys their hard work.
“Betty, you ass!” I yell through a laugh.
“Bad word,” Odessa shouts back without skipping a beat.
“Betty’s my accountant. Hit her up for swear jar money.”
A little farther downstream, a few guys are putting together a rope swing that looks pretty damn sketchy. The rope’s a little too frayed and the branch could stand to be thicker. That said, I’m not one to turn down a rope swing.
Hardly slowing my stride, I snag a can of beer from the massive blue cooler we’ve been keeping down here for the past few weeks—some sort of beer fairy keeps stocking it, and I keep drinking it.
The first swig’s smooth and crisp.
“Damn, what do we have here, fellas?” I sidle up next to Red and watch Denny give the rope a good tug to test the branch overhead.
“Denny feels like breaking his neck today,” Red says, kicking a pebble around with the side of his bare foot.
“As long as you let go over the water, it’s fine. There’s a big pool right here. The river’s deep as hell.” Denny’s hands slide higher up the rope so he can pull his body off the ground. Still, the rope holds. And he gives his onlookers a smug look.
Jackson shakes his head. “He wants another excuse to visit the clinic.”
“We’ve moved to house calls, my guy.” He shoots his brother a finger gun before gripping the rope and scrambling to the top of a boulder.
Standing above us and staring out at the water, he glides his palms along the tattered off-white rope. With a yip, Denny swings forward and lands in the frigid water. He hasn’t even surfaced yet, and I’m chugging the rest of my beer, darting forward to catch the rope on its limp swing back toward shore.
My bare feet burn as I hobble over the rocks to the same place Denny swung from. Looks like a decent distance to drop, but he survived, so it’s probably safe enough.
“You guys wanna see a cannonball pro at work?” I call out.
They must not have heard me, because nobody answers.
I go for it anyway. Raising my hands as high above my head as I can muster to grab the rope, I leap from the smooth boulder and fly through the air. It’s so reminiscent of George of the Jungle, I have to remind myself out loud to let go before I swing back and smack into the rock face.
The water chills me to the bone instantly, washing the salty sweat from my skin and easing the deep ache woven into my muscles from long days in the tractor. Finally surfacing, I inhale lungful after lungful of air.
To my chagrin, within minutes of stepping onto the rocky shore, I’m fully dry and my body temperature is skyrocketing. I nudge Denny and gesture for him to swing again. It’s way less fun if I’m the only one doing the rope swing repeatedly while everybody else sits around drinking beer.